Summers in Italy had one serious disadvantage: no books, or, I should say, almost no books. I had my own two little shelves of books I reread over and over and over, and then, over (why I can still quote On the Banks of Plum Creek almost word for word today), and I had whatever book arrived from my mother's weekly American book club, which varied
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Excellent.
(Now I'm going to have the song stuck in my head again. It's like a return to being eight).
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(It was summers at my Dad's country-sitting house, for me. And I read that in lieu of the Silmarillion, which...says how I felt about the Silmarillion, I suppose. Theological arguments ahoy!)
Never heard of the Famous Five or the Wombles, for that matter, but books of talking bears seem an obvious treasure.
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